


You Were Supposed To Call Me

by 221blogger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anonymous Sponsor, Gambling, I'm not sorry, Kissing, Like........ hot kissing, M/M, Mentions of Mary, Tumblr Prompt, it got away from me, suggestion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 12:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16197758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221blogger/pseuds/221blogger
Summary: Written because of a prompt given to me from Tumblr user @i-dont-shave-for-john-watson.John is addicted to gambling and gets given an anonymous sponsor to call when he feels the urge to gamble, but he doesn't call them. What happens next is in the hands of our favourite genius.





	You Were Supposed To Call Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I just wanna thank Tumblr user @i-dont-shave-for-john-watson for giving me this prompt. I was a little worried about writing it at the start because I knew literally nothing about gambling but it really took off and I found I couldn't stop writing it. If anybody wants to continue this story, let me know! Would be awesome to read what you guys think would happen next.

John often found himself in this position, lured towards the casino on his journey home from work. After his wife, Mary, had died in a car accident, he found himself heartbroken: an empty soul with a heart sucked dry, condemned to a life without happiness.

In the beginning, he had cared so deeply, he had grieved immensely and even attended therapy sessions. Some days he felt as though he would heal; he would make progress, but most days he would dwell on the fierce ache he felt inside.

Nevertheless, he soon gave up this lifestyle of trying to “heal”. He just dealt with it. He isolated himself and took up gambling in a last desperate attempt to restore some excitement to his life. And sometimes, it worked. When he would win a bet, or spend the night gambling ‘til 4am, he would forget about the gaping hole in his chest for a few hours. But it didn’t last forever. He’d let the pain return and fill his entire being until he felt nothing. Then he would place another bet.

The only moment he felt something shift was when he was nominated for the anonymous sponsor system. Over the past two years of recovering (and that was a term he used lightly), he had learned how to hide from himself. Much to John’s distaste, this sponsor was going to force him to face himself again.

He was advised that he would be required to phone his sponsor upon feeling the need to gamble. John practically scoffed at the ridiculousness of it all. “Yeah right,” he spat, balling up the paper in his hands before throwing it to the other side of the room. He took his coat and headed to the casino.

…

John checked his phone. No messages. Low battery. 3:28am. Sighing, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and set off home. He had drank and gambled away his days earnings at the clinic and he knew full well he would do the same tomorrow. And the next day.

He rubbed at the disheveled stubble on his chin and turned the key in his lock, but it wouldn’t turn. I swear I locked up.

Heading inside and closing the door behind him, he made sure to turn the key slowly so he could focus on the *lock* sound the mechanism would make. He tested the handle. Definitely locked.

John shrugged his coat off his shoulders and hung it up in the hallway. His muscles ached as he slowly made his way into his flat. He grunted as he threw his body onto the sofa, rubbing his hands along the back of his neck.

“You were supposed to call me.”

John froze. Like, actually froze. He didn’t think he knew how to breath. Somebody was in his house. In his house. He hadn’t even turned on the lights. He couldn’t see. He-

“No good screwing up the paper with my contact details on it,” the voice continued. It had the seductive warmth of sinking into strong arms in front of a cozy fire. Strong arms? To John’s surprise, a spark of that long-dead heat stirred in his stomach. This wasn’t the sort of response a man should have to finding a strange man in his home.

He cleared his throat. “Who are you?”

“Your sponsor.”

John blinked a few times in a desperate attempt to look upon the man. “H-how did you get in? How do you even know where I live?”

The man just chuckled. “I’m something of what you might consider a genius, John. I have contacts.” He paused for a moment. Upon getting no response, he repeated himself. “You were supposed to call me.”

“What’s your name?” John retorted. He should have been angrier. He should be calling the police. But something about this man made him feel secure. He felt in no danger.

“Sherlock,” the man replied, his voice dripping through the dark room like honey.

“Sherlock,” John tested the name on his lips, “mind if I turn a light on?”

“Be my guest.” John heard the smirk in his voice.

He flicked the light on and his eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the new level of brightness. He fingered his eyelids and blinked, settling his sights on the man in front of him. He was tall, probably six foot. John took in the mans features. His dark hair sat clumsily on top of his head in loose curls that threatened to fall over his hooded eyes, which looked to be something of a mixture of blue and green. They looked back at him.

“Like what you see?” Sherlock quizzed, raising an eyebrow at John. He opened his arms out as if putting his body on display. John simply stood there, unable to take his eyes off his tall, slim frame, clad in a black tailored suit. Sherlock sighed and let his arms flop by his side again. His face fell serious. “John, you should know that I despise repeating myself. So I’ll say it once more. You were supposed to call me.”

“I know,” John finally spoke, noticing a slight break in his voice. Sherlock tilted his head as if awaiting more of a response. John straightened his back and faced Sherlock straight. “I don’t need your help,” was his final excuse.

Sherlock took a few steps towards John, stopping short of maybe two or three feet. John couldn’t tell if his drunk mind was manifesting things, but he was attracted to this man. Seriously attracted to him. His confusion and denial must have shown on his face, because the tall man in front of him let out a small laugh. He spoke in a whisper now. “You wouldn’t have been referred to me if you didn’t.”

John fought for words. “I…” He suddenly felt like a dying man looking at a cold, refreshing glass of water. Did this man know what he was doing to him?

He did. Sherlock could read people like a book, and John was no exception to that. He had read all the signs of attraction the second he had spoke. Before he had even seen John’s slack jaw and tensed muscles, he could hear the immediate attraction he had felt. And Sherlock would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about the man in front of him, too.

“I think,” Sherlock began, taking a slow step towards John, “that you do need me,” another step, “and now that I’m here,” he closed the distance between them, “you can tell me what you need.”

John practically sobbed and bit his lip to swallow back the sounds his body threatened to make. His back was now pressed firmly against the wall; the tall man directly in front of him. He wasn’t going to let his body betray him. I’m not gay, he scorned himself internally, get a grip on yourself-

Sherlock raised his finger and ghosted a touch across John’s jaw, tracing the structure and allowing his digit to fall and draw lines along his exposed neck, his eyes never leaving John’s, even as they became drunker with lust every second that passed with Sherlock’s hands on him. His touch was burning holes into John’s skin.

John struggled a response, his voice barely a whisper, “what… could I possibly… need from you?”

Sherlock placed his finger under John’s chin and raised it. “This.”

John became heady with the closeness of Sherlock’s face and clenched his fists, and before he could protest, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to, the man he had known barely five minutes was pressing his lips into John’s. He closed his eyes and shivered, his body overflowing with feelings of confusion, lust, desire and full blown bewilderment. Sherlock’s teeth grazed his lower lip and he shuddered beneath his touch. He almost wanted to laugh at this whole situation. What the fuck was going on? An hour ago he was gambling his sorrows away, grieving for his dead wife, and right now he was snogging a man who broke into his home.

Sherlock ended the kiss but didn’t pull away, leaving the distance between the two barely a centimeter, and he looked at John.

“You should not have kissed me,“ John spoke breathlessly.

"I do a lot of things I shouldn’t. It does not mean I won’t do them again.” And with that, Sherlock closed the distance between them again.

John gave in and melted into the mans touch. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek and deepened their kiss, breathing harshly and reveling in the touch of this tall, dark and handsome stranger in his home.

The kiss quickly became more frantic. Sherlock’s hands dipped to John’s waist as the shorter man hooked his palms behind Sherlock’s nape to pull him in closer. John came up for air and Sherlock hurried to plant his lips against the mans throat, adoring the sounds he brought out of him.

John’s head rested against the wall, his eyes on the ceiling. “On second thoughts,” John began, barely able to form a sentence through his gasps for breath, “I should have definitely called you.”

Sherlock laughed into John’s skin. “Very good observation, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this SERIOUSLY GOT AWAY FROM ME!!! I DON’T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED!!! THANK YOU FOR THE PROMPT SJSDKFJS


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